Hatred, and Wind in the Trees
by Lindira
Summary: He agreed because he couldn't stand the thought of losing the one he loves. But it doesn't change the fact that he's doing this with someone he hates. A one-shot from Alistair's point of view, as he goes through Morrigan's Dark Ritual. Explicit content.


A/N: First Dragon Age story I've published here. Also my first with sexual content. NSFW and I don't own the characters. Some of the dialogue is also not mine, as it was taken directly from the game for continuity's sake. No copyright infringement intended.

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"Hatred, and Wind in the Trees"

"I see you can't sleep either."

Alistair should have noticed something was wrong the moment Illyria walked through the door. She was normally so forthright and honest; the elf who walked through the door was hesitant and quiet. At the time, he had attributed it to the news they had received only an hour or so before – because who wouldn't be disturbed by the idea that one of them had to die to stop the Blight? And yet, he should have known that wasn't it. Illyria wasn't scared off by death. And something was definitely scaring her.

"Alistair, we need to talk…" she said, shifting her feet. Her hands fidgeted as she spoke.

"Oh, I guess whatever Morrigan had to say, it's big," Alistair said, sighing. He was sure it was some nonsense the witch had cooked up. Maybe she was accusing him of putting dead rabbits in her pack again for Illyria's Mabari to find. In fact, that was probably it. He did only put the rabbit in there yesterday. "So what is it, then? I can take it."

Illyria paced the small room for a moment, then looked him in the eye. "I… I love you. You know that, right?"

"Could you make it sound more ominous?" he laughed. "Tell me already."

"What if I told you there was a way to avoid dying tomorrow?"

Alistair frowned. "You mean with the archdemon, right? Lyri, if you mean running away, I can't do that." She cast her eyes downward, breaking from his gaze. He swallowed, hard. "But you don't mean that, do you? What is this about?"

The words suddenly came out of her in a deluge, about a ritual, about sleeping with Morrigan. Alistair tried to laugh it off at first, but as he listened to her – to the tremble in her normally steady voice, to the sadness apparent in every word – a knot began growing in his stomach as he began to realize what she was seriously asking him to do. He heard his voice rise several octaves as she told him about the child Morrigan wanted, and that it would somehow be a reincarnated Old God. He thought he handled the news rather well, considering the love of his life was asking him to impregnate a woman he hated.

He took a deep breath and sat in a chair nearby, his legs feeling like they weren't legs at all, but rather sticks of soft cheese. "Look, Lyri, even if I was willing to entertain this idea… and I'm not saying I am… is this really what you want me to do? Are you sure?"

Illyria walked over to him and put a hand on his arm, stroking it gently. "You need to trust me."

Alistair looked at her, at her chestnut hair and blue-green eyes. There was hurt in her eyes, but it wasn't pain she felt for herself alone. She hurt for him, for both of them. He knew he might prefer to die than do anything… intimate… with Morrigan, but what about Illyria? What if she reached the archdemon first? She was always so determined, so stubborn. Illyria wouldn't hesitate to strike down the dragon if given the opportunity. Could he really say no to her, knowing that possibility?

"All right," he said reluctantly. "I do trust you. I'll do it."

She gave him a forced smile that did nothing to reassure him, and as she took his hand and squeezed it, he worried about what this meant for their relationship. The Dalish elf pulled him from his room, down the hall, and into her own quarters. Morrigan stood by the fire, waiting.

"Alistair has agreed to your… request," Illyria told her. Her voice was steady, but Alistair could feel the slightest tremble in her fingers.

"Wait," Alistair stammered. He insisted that Morrigan swear to him that she didn't want to use his bastard child against Ferelden.

"Of that, you have my word," she said distastefully, as if it were a ridiculous idea.

He sighed. "Oh, why don't I feel any better about this?" He looked down at Illyria, who had let go of his hand and stared fixedly at the fire. "All right. Let's… just get this over with."

"Let us go somewhere more private, Alistair," Morrigan said, smiling like a cat on the hunt. "And believe me when I say you will not hate this as much as you believe."

"You can use this room," Illyria spoke up suddenly. "I… I think I'll go to Alistair's room." She looked up at him and gave him another one of those forced smiles. "I'll… wait for you there, all right?" She turned on her heel and made for the door.

"Lyri," Alistair called after her.

She paused at the door without turning.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?"

She nodded and glanced at him over her shoulder. "I'm sure, Alistair. Just… don't take long." And without waiting for an answer, she left, closing the door behind her.

Alistair stared at the door for a moment, willing Illyria to come back, to save him from his fate.

"'Tis difficult for her," Morrigan said in a quiet voice. "Though she would never say so."

He rounded on her, a rush of anger filling him. "Then why are you doing this to her? How could you ask something like this of her? I thought she was your friend!"

Alistair felt a brief satisfaction at the flash of pain in Morrigan's eyes. "She is. And therefore, I would not see her sacrifice herself needlessly. Not when I can do something to save her." She crossed the room, lighting several candles and extinguishing the fire in the hearth. "This is all I can do for her, Alistair. She may not thank me when this is done, but she will be alive."

"So, the possibility of her getting stomped to death under the dragon's foot hasn't crossed your mind, then?" he joked bitterly.

Morrigan cast him a piercing look through the candlelight. "Get undressed, you fool. She told us not to tarry."

Alistair gulped and nodded. He started on the buckles of his platemail, his clammy hands slipping on the cold metal. A sick, queasy feeling had erupted from the knot that had taken residence in his stomach, the reality of what he was about to do hitting him in full. The armor clanked as he set it carefully in the corner, and the sound echoed against the cold stones of the walls. He removed the padded shirt he wore under his breastplate, and the light tunic under that. He paused at his pants, feeling suddenly exposed and vulnerable.

"All of it, Alistair," Morrigan called to him from across the room. His cheeks reddened as he noticed that she had been undressing as well. "Or do you intend for me to cut a hole in your undergarments so we can do this properly?"

"You sure know how to set the mood," Alsitair grumbled, but hastily took off his pants. He sat in his smallclothes on top of the bed. "What now?"

A faint glow came from Morrigan's hands, then faded. "Now we can begin." She gave him a pitying smile. "Relax, Templar. This will go more smoothly if you simply relax."

She turned to him then, also dressed in nothing but her smallclothes. He wondered why the sight of her dressed that way made him so nervous, when she wore normally only a few scraps of clothing more. She sauntered up to the bed, her hips swaying not unpleasantly as she moved.

As she crawled onto the bed, Alistair backed away, wishing he could simply run away – smallclothes and all – and find himself in the safety of Illyria's arms. Morrigan looked at him meaningfully as she hovered above him, and reached over to blow out the candle beside the bed.

Her hands were on him, then, teasing the firm flesh of his chest and arms. Her mouth bent to nip lightly at the sensitive flesh of his neck and shoulders, and though the sensations were decidedly pleasant, he felt repulsed by her ministrations. It was all he could do to stop himself from swatting her away. He felt her hands wander down to his hips, jumping as she stroked him through the small strip of cloth covering him there.

Morrigan was right. He didn't hate this as much as he believed. He hated this so much more.

Even through the dim candlelight, Alistair could see that Morrigan was frowning. "Are you always this twitchy?"

"Gi-give me a minute, all right?" Alistair stammered. As much as he would rather be anywhere else right then, he wanted it over and done with. "I just need to get focused is all. Couldn't you – I don't know… shape-shift into something else?"

She smirked. "You would prefer to have intercourse with a bear? Or a spider, perhaps?"

"No!" he yelped, his stomach souring further at the thought. "It's just… I _really_ don't like you."

Morrigan chuckled. "The feeling is quite mutual." She shrugged. "You have an imagination, do you not? Then use it. Imagine yourself with someone else, if you find me so distasteful. I care not."

He nodded. "Okay, just… stop talking."

She sighed. "Very well."

Alistair closed his eyes. He desperately clung to the image of Illyria, her brown hair in its usual ponytail, shining in the sunlight. The Dalish tattoos swirled and swept across her brow like intricate wings, giving intensity to her kind face. And if he concentrated hard enough, he could almost smell her scent: leather and metal and grease and soap and something unmistakably her. It always reminded him of the wind blowing through trees. He felt himself harden at the thought of her, of her firm buttocks and slender waist.

Wordlessly, Morrigan began stroking him again through his smallclothes, and his body responded in kind this time. In his illusion, he imagined Illyria looking up at him with a devilish grin as she slipped her hand under the thin cotton to caress his growing length. She peppered his neck and chest with feather-light kisses before playfully biting the lobe of his ear, sending shivers of pleasure down his spine. He moaned, desire building within him as he gasped for breath.

His hands reached for her then, but the hips he found were too wide, the breasts too full. He willed himself not to remember where he was and who he was with. He deftly unclasped the bit of cloth around her breasts, and caught a nipple in his mouth, teasing with his tongue. A voice cried out in pleasure, and the foreignness of the voice nearly brought him out of his reverie. He suckled one breast as he caressed the other with his hand, telling himself that they were Illyria's, though they felt so different.

She pulled away from him then, her tongue tracing a trail down his chest and stomach. Pulling his smallclothes off in one swift movement, she bent again to lap the sweat and wetness from his shaft. A long, shuddering moan escaped from his lips as she dipped lower to taste his sack. She slowly dragged the tip of her tongue up the length of him until reaching the head. She captured him in his mouth, and the sudden warmth and wetness made him cry out. "Oh, Maker…!"

A chuckle escaped from her, a strange, devilish sound that he desperately tried to ignore. She sucked on him now, twirling her tongue around the sensitive head. Alistair reached down to touch her bobbing head with his hands, but suddenly found it a terrible idea. Her hair was too long, and there were no pointy-tipped ears tickling his palms. He forced his hands to his sides and gripped the sheets, feeling his pulse race hot in his blood at his throat and temples.

His mind wandered to the first time Illyria had done this sort of thing for him. They had only made love once before then, and he was still nervous and unsure about what to do. She grinned at him with love and mischief as she lowered herself over him on her bedroll.

"What- er, what are you going to do down there?" he stammered, laughing nervously.

"Just relax," she said, still smiling. "You'll like this."

He smiled back, feeling a little reassured. "Of that, I have no doubt, dear lady. But, I still don't know-" She wrapped her mouth around him, stroking the underside of the head with her tongue. "Holy Maker!" he cried.

Illyria raised her head and giggled. "You were asking about licking lampposts?"

Alistair laughed. "And here it is, not even winter."

"I can do this any time of the year, you know," she said matter-of-factly before going down on him again.

He groaned his appreciation. "I really like the sound of that."

Alistair allowed himself to smile at the memory, even as he moaned again under the heat of her mouth. His heart pounding in his ears, he stopped her and flipped her onto her back. She let out a small gasp of surprise. He opened his eyes then, and she was Morrigan again, as she always was, and not Illyria at all. But instinct overrode his hatred now. He hastily stripped off the rest of her smallclothes and dipped a finger into her wet folds, stroking her to prepare for his entry. Her breathing was heavy and ragged, her hips lifting to meet his hand. He slipped a second finger into her and she moaned too, closing her eyes with pleasure. He plunged his fingers into her again and again until she was slick with wetness.

Alistair gritted his teeth and lifted her hips to meet his. With one smooth movement, he pushed himself into her, shuddering at the symphony of sensation, as her muscles tightened around him. He closed his eyes again, hating the sight of her, with her head thrown back in ecstasy. He pulled back and pushed into her again, hating the sound of her voice breathlessly saying his name. His pace quickened as he thrust himself over and over again into her warmth. He leaned into her, deepening the penetration into her, hating the smell of her – incense and herbs and perfume. He clawed his mind desperately for Illyria's scent, but try as he might, he could not bring it up, his nose filled with Morrigan. And he hated himself most of all, for doing this, for feeling some pleasure in this, and most of all for doing this to Illyria.

His pace was frantic now, and he slammed into Morrigan again and again. She suddenly cried out, trembling beneath him. Her muscles tightened around his hardness and he came, spilling himself into her. As his climax overtook him, he cried out as well. "Oh, Lyri!"

Overcome with exhaustion, he nearly collapsed on top of her, but willed himself to stay upright. He pulled himself out of her as quickly as he could, his skin suddenly crawling at her touch. Without a word, he pulled on his smallclothes, tunic, and pants, and left, carrying his boots. He could come back for his armor in the morning.

Alistair stumbled down the hall, legs shaking, skin still crawling. He quietly opened the door to his room, finding small comfort in the petite form of his fellow Grey Warden in the bed. He knew she wasn't sleeping – he couldn't hear the deep breaths of slumber nor the whimpers she gave as she dreamt of darkspawn – but said nothing to her. Instead, he went to the fireplace and took a hot stone from it with a pair of tongs. He placed the stone into the bath full of cold water. He chose another stone, and another, and still another, until steam rose from the now hot bath.

He stripped down and stepped gingerly into the tub. He had purposefully made it too hot, and he hissed as he lowered himself into the scalding water. Taking a nearby shallow basin, he scooped up the water and gasped as he poured it over his head. His hands trembled with tiredness and self-loathing and pain as he reached for the soap. He lathered and scrubbed at his skin, rinsed himself off, and repeated the process, still feeling unclean. His skin was now bright pink from the heat, but he didn't care. It hurt, but not as much as the memory of what he just did.

Rinsing himself off a final time, he clambered out of the tub and dried himself off. He paused, looking at the bottle of oil sitting beside the bath.

"You should really use this stuff after you bathe," Illyria had often told him. "Otherwise your skin will dry out and crack in this cold, and that can be really uncomfortable under armor," she would say in a no-nonsense tone.

Alistair opened the bottle and poured a liberal amount into his hands. He rubbed it into his raw skin, the pain slowly dissipating as it soaked in the nourishing oil. He patted himself dry again to get rid of the excess. He went to a drawer, retrieved a new set of clothes, and pulled them on. After a moment's hesitation, he took the old clothes – still smelling of sex and sweat – and threw them into the fire.

"Lyri?" he whispered.

"I'm awake, Alistair," Illyria replied, turning in the bed to face him. "Come here."

He crawled in under the covers next to her and she pulled him into her arms. He slowly put his arms around her and sighed. She felt right – everything the right size. They held each other in silence for a moment.

Alistair suddenly looked up at her, his eyes over-bright. "I'm sorry, Lyri," he told her, his voice breaking. "I am so sorry."

"Shh," she hushed him, hugging his head closer to her chest. She planted several soft kisses in his hair. "Thank you. Thank you so much for doing this." She lowered her head and kissed him on the lips, comforting and possessive. "I love you."

"I love you too. So much."

Full of love for her and hatred of himself, he pulled her closer and breathed her in as they fell asleep. Leather and metal and grease and soap. And above all, the wind blowing through the trees.

END.


End file.
